


Confessions

by peachywise



Category: IT - Stephen King
Genre: Enemies to Lovers, F/M, M/M, No god damn killer clown, Other, Pining, Secret dating, idiots to lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-28
Updated: 2019-09-28
Packaged: 2020-10-29 19:50:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20802017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peachywise/pseuds/peachywise
Summary: You hated Stanley Uris. Stanley Uris hated you. Why the Losers’ Club thought a sleepover and a game of truth or dare would fix that was beyond you, but anything’s worth a try.





	1. Basement Confessions

**Author's Note:**

> hello!! this is the first in a two-part series that I posted on my tumblr peachywise about a year ago. thought i'd share it here as i just wrote the second part. hope you enjoy! reader pronouns are they/them.

“Truth or dare, Y/N?” Stan asked you, as he tried to hide the small ghost of a smirk that slowly inched its way on to his face.

And at that moment, you knew you were fucked.

“Jesus Christ,” Bev muttered under her breath in reply before you could voice your own irritation. Jesus Christ, indeed. Currently, all the Losers were sat around in a circle in the living room of Bill’s house playing this stupid game Richie had suggested. Truth or dare. Though you fought against it, asking in a sarcastic tone, “what are we, twelve?” you were easily ignored. It wasn’t that you were scared to play the game or do the dares. You just knew one person, in particular, would try to make you do the most miserable, horrible stuff he could think of. That person was Stanley Uris.

It was the first sleepover that you and Stan had attended together, and you hoped it would be the last. You had known the boy for years, and he’d always been just as high-strung as his coiled, golden locks. You’d never once gotten along with him. It mostly started in fourth grade when he chastised your organizational skills. In an attempt to prove him wrong, you ended up running against him for class president. It was the most intense election to date, and even your teacher was stunned into a quiet submission at some of your well-thought-out, yet fierce rebuttals. In the end, Richie won by a landslide, but the animosity had already blossomed between you two. Afterwards, he would go out of his way to put you down and correct you at any chance, and in return, you would draw dead birds and leave them in his locker to torment him. Looking back on it now, you agreed that maybe that course of action was a little mean and far too morbid, but you couldn’t feel remorse for it when he hated you just as much.

It was like he wanted to argue with you on everything! Anything you ever suggested the Losers’ Club did, he would be right there telling you it was a stupid, reckless idea and that you should just be ignored. Ben and Mike often tried to mediate your fights, boiling it down to the fact you two where allegedly similar (ha!), but nothing could ever mend the poisonous hostility that dripped between you two.

You had no idea why they thought a sleepover would be the cure.

That’s what this night was about, after all. You weren’t stupid. Well. You were stupid enough that you hadn’t expected this to be the plan when you showed up tonight, but c’est la vie. The only solace you took in your embarrassment of having fallen for the trap was the fact Stan fell for it too. Sucker. You’d both have to suffer in each other’s company.

Turning your head in emphasized boredom towards Stan, you rolled your eyes. Don’t let him see the panic that washed through you and made your fingertips numb. You could handle whatever came your way. “Let’s go with truth, bird fucker,” you yawned, meeting his gaze in a look you hoped met his challenge. You swore you saw his eye twitch, most likely in response to the nickname you had given him. He’d never liked it. You weren’t exactly sure why.

“Fine,” he quipped, leaning back slightly as if all too relaxed. You could see the fake contemplation on his face. He already knew what he was going to ask you, he just wanted to drag it on for a little while. What a sadist.

“Do you guys remember in ninth grade when someone was leaving love letters in Bill’s locker?” Ah, fuck. Slowly, everyone in the circle gave a perplexed nod. “I think I remember Y/N telling me they know who did it.” You were going to ring Stan’s scrawny, little neck and feed him to the freaking pigeons. Wait, scratch that. You would feed him to the fish. He liked pigeons too much to even deserve that. “Care to share?”

As much as you hated to admit it, this was a smart tactic. He knew you were the one who had left the love letters. He wasn’t giving you the opportunity to lie about the truth he had giving you. What a bitch. The day he caught you trying to cram one through the little metal slots was the day you lost about 5 years of your life. You’d always wondered why he never said anything. Now you knew. He had waited for the right opportunity.

Taking in a deep, calming breath, you flopped back so you were laying down on the floor. No way in hell did you want to see their reactions. “It was me,” you gritted out, folding your arms over your chest like a pouty child. “The crush barely lasted three months, okay? It was a moment of weakness,” you explained, before Bill stuttered out a slightly offended, “hey.” Sitting back up, you faced him and gave him an apologetic smile. “Let me rephrase that. Not a weakness. You were being especially nice to me during a time when someone,” you muttered, giving a pointed look towards Stan, “was making it his life’s purpose to hate me.” Stan’s face dropped the slightest bit before he covered it up and put back on his face of indifference. Weird.

“It’s fine,” Bill smiled a little awkwardly, flashing a look towards Stan who had now averted his gaze up towards the ceiling. Richie, however, gave you an accusatory glare. “You told everyone you thought it was me doing that!” He whined, before you cleared your throat and loudly asked, “Hey Stan! Truth or dare?” You had to cover your tracks somehow.

“Dare.” He stated definitively, without so much of a waver in his tone. Giving a little smirk, you simply said, “I dare you to let Eddie spit in your mouth.”

Havoc ensued.

“WHAT?” Eddie shot out, immediately standing up and letting the blanket drop that had previously been draped over his and Richie’s lap. Crossing his arms out in front of him, he shook his head erratically. “No. No way. Do you know how unsanitary that is? I am not spitting in his mouth!” Richie gave a little snicker as he casually added, “I’ll spit in his mouth.” Eddie looked down at him utterly horrified. In reality, it wasn’t even that big of a deal. Eddie had swapped spit with Richie before, even if the two wouldn’t admit it to the rest of you. Those idiots didn’t know how obvious they really were.

Stan shook his head. “Nobody is spitting in my mouth,” he groaned as if he couldn’t believe he actually had to say that sentence. Big baby. “A dare is a dare, Stan,” Bev conceded, the small tell-tale crinkles at the corner of her eyes appearing as a sign of her amusement. Ben just murmured a small, “I don’t want to watch.”

Standing up, you snapped your fingers in Richie’s direction before pointing at Stan. “The sooner you do it, the sooner it’ll be over,” you huffed out, planting your hands on your hips. Stan stood up in response and stalked over to you, glaring you down in an attempt to thwart your persistence as he repeated a simple, “no.” Pay back’s a real bitch, Uris.

Preparing to fight Stan until inevitably someone’s spit ended up sliding down his throat, Mike’s voice rung out before you could even get a single word out. “How about as consolation we have to come up with a group dare? We come up with something else, and you have to do whatever it is no matter what?” What a buzz kill. Stanley didn’t even take a second to process what was offered to him before he said, “I’ll do whatever else.”

“Billy? Can you read me a story?” came a small voice from the corridor of the hallway, breaking the previous tension that had radiated between you and Stan. Bill stood up before walking over to his little brother, Georgie. “Yeah, of c-course,” he smiled down at him, before turning to look back at the rest of you. “Pick something good, okay?” he added brightly, before leading Georgie back down the hallway, arm slung around him.

By the time you looked back over, Mike, Ben, Eddie, Bev, and Richie were already crowded around each other, mumbling ideas about what new dare they were going to give Stan. How come you weren’t allowed to be apart of the deliberation? Way to rip off your turn.

Giving one last glaring side-eye to Stan, you plopped yourself on the couch, preparing to enjoy the oncoming show, albeit how boring it was bound to be without the involvement of spit. 

“Okay,” Mike grinned, as the rest of your friends turned back to face you two. “Both of you have to be locked in the basement and makeup—“ Richie butted in saying “make out,” before Beverly clapped her hand over his mouth. Mike gave him a knowing look, before continuing with, “like I was saying, you’ll be locked down there until you guys work out whatever deep-seeded issues you have with one other.” Ben added in a quick and chirpy, “even if it takes all night.”

Well, that just wasn’t going to work.

“This is his dare, not mine!” you groaned, “why am I being wrapped up into this? I never agreed.” Eddie shot you a disbelieving look, shooting back with, “but you were fine having me spit in his mouth?” Touché. But you still weren’t taking a single step into that basement. No. You had refused to go down into Bill’s basement for years. Not since the last time. You weren’t going to start now on some silly little dare.

“Deal,” Stan stated simply, as he turned and began walking down the hallway. What the fuck?

Racing to catch up to him, you shot your arm out to grip his forearm. “Hey, no deal! I’m not going into the basement. Not with you, not with anyone,” you grated out, trying the squash the panicked feeling that had begun to onset. You were terrified of being down there. You couldn’t go.

Stan turned to stare at you for a second, his face shifting into something unreadable as he took a tiny step towards you. Getting more desperate by the second, you whispered a small, “please,” quiet enough for only him to hear it. The last thing you wanted to do was beg him for anything, but just the thought of stepping foot down in that cement hell hole was causing you to be irrational.

“It’ll be fun!” Richie’s voice called from behind you, as you felt hands go to your hips and lift you in the air, as you were tossed right on over the trashmouth’s shoulder. Suddenly, you weren’t sure if you hated him more or Stan. “Put me down, you shit head!” you bit out, hitting his back as he effortlessly used his free hand to swing the basement door open before beginning his descent down the steps. Stan followed slowly after him, giving a hesitant look all the way down while you still struggled and yelled out a slew of curse words aimed at no one in particular. “Maybe this isn’t such a good idea,” Stan stated hesitantly, as he seemed to be the only one noticing the frightened look in your eyes. If your rational brain had been functioning at the moment, you would have yelled at him for the pity. Right now you really didn’t care all that much.

As Richie set you down on the ground, you quickly tried following his steps back up the rickety wooden stairs, but you didn’t make it. The door was shut unceremoniously in your face. “This is for the greater good!” his annoying voice called from behind the door before you heard all your friend’s steps lead back down the hall. Banging on the door frantically, you cried for them to let you out. It was too dark. You couldn’t breathe. You couldn’t think, you couldn’t focus, you—

“Are you okay?”

Resting your head on the wooden door, you tried to take calm, reassuring breaths. “Just leave me alone, Stanley,” you murmured, already embarrassed enough at your fear. You don’t think you’d ever been alone with Stan in your life. Figures it be during a time like this.

“Look at me,” Stan stated, a certain edge to his voice. Taking in another sharp breath to calm the shaking of your hands, you turned around on the small step to face him. You immediately regretted that decision. Suddenly a flashback of the incident that made you hate this basement so much flooded through your thoughts and your bones, and you weren’t so sure you could stand anymore. Covering your face with your hands, you bent down a little as if to contain yourself. “I can’t be in here,” you whispered, as two arms wrapped around your shoulders. You flinched, but he didn’t let go.

“Let’s go down the stairs,” he calmly stated, as he slung one arm slightly awkwardly around your tense shoulders as you began the walk down. As soon as your bare feet hit cold pavement, a shaky sigh of relief escaped you. Turned out you felt better on the ground level than on the stairs. Duly noted.

Sitting down on the floor as he let go, you brought your knees up to your chest and wrapped your arms around your legs. At this very moment, you didn’t give half a shit of what Stan thought. You just needed to calm down and get out of here. If that meant you had to play nice with the golden boy, you would do it.

“You want to tell me what’s going on?” he questioned a little cautiously, as you breathed out a small, “not really,” bending your head down to rest on your knees. It was a stupid story. The only one who knew was Bill, and you had sworn him to secrecy right after it happened. Mostly because you didn’t want Stan finding out and making fun of you for it.

It was quiet for a beat before you finally heard him say, “good, because I don’t want to hear it.” Irritation quickly shot through your veins, replacing the previous numbness brought upon from your little panicked moment. Lifting up your head, you yelled, “you don’t have to be such a jackass!” Then you noticed the small smile plastered on his face. “Do you feel better now?” he asked knowingly, and you grumbled a short, “shut up,” in return before putting your head back down on your knees.

It was quiet again. A little longer this time and the silence made you feel cold all over. You felt tears start to prickle at the side of your eyes as you remembered laying down here in the cold that one night, all alone and in so much fucking pain that—

“I’m terrified of mascots.”

“What?” you blurted out, your head snapping up as if a puppeteer had lifted the string. “Mascots. You know, the people in the big, often furry suits,” he explained a little more thoroughly.

Well this was new information.

“When I was seven years old, I went to a ball game with my dad,” he continued, much to your surprise. You focused on his smooth voice. “There was this tiger mascot, and for some reason he kept following me around. It was annoying, but I managed to hide. When he found me, my dad thought it was amusing and shoved him towards me as some sort of joke. The mascot fell and knocked me down, and his head just fell off as I was crushed below him. The guy was clearly drunk and man, he smelled so gross,” Stan groaned, giving a bit of a shiver at the memory. “Ever since then, I run the other way as soon as I see them. They terrify me.”

You stared at him for a second, before a small snort escaped you. Stan’s face quickly dropped.

“It’s not funny,” he grumbled, as he began to pace away from you. Standing up a little shakily still, you gave a bit of a breathless laugh. “No, no I’m sorry, it’s not.” You agreed, trying your hardest to keep a straight face. The second his hesitant eyes met yours again, however, you busted into uncontainable laughter.

“If you tell anyone, no one’s going to believe you!” He shot out, as you wiped the small tears from the corner of your eye. Wow. Just the image of Stan running away from some guy in a giant bird costume had you in a fit of giggles once more.

“I was just trying to make you feel better,” he retorted once more, as you took deep breaths to stop the laughter in its tracks. He was right. You were being kind of rude. “I’m sorry, okay? Look. No more laughing,” you pleaded, reaching out to grab his wrist while giving him the best serious look you could. You knew a small smile still lit your face, but you hoped he’d take the effort to not laugh as a white flag.

“Fine,” he mumbled, as he sat down on the floor once more, you sitting directly across from him. You began to feel a little awkward at his confession. He trusted you with that, so what harm could come from you telling him why you were so afraid of the basement? Maybe bringing it up would make you feel a little better.

“Do you remember when I was ten and I broke my leg?” Stan nodded. “Well,” you breathed, as you looked down towards your fiddling hands, “that weekend I had slept over at Bill’s because my parents were out of town. I got up in the middle of the night to get some water, and I,” stopping briefly to calm the small race in your heart, you continued quickly. “I thought I heard a noise in the basement. I assumed it was Bill trying to freak me out, I never did like basements very much, but as soon as I got to the second step, I tripped and fell down the stairs,” you whispered, a phantom pain shooting through your right leg at the memory. “That’s not so bad in itself, but no one heard me. I was left down here all night until Bill’s dad found me in the morning, crying in pain, and—“

The slightest touch against your cheek jarred you from your thoughts as Stan swiped a small tear from your face with his thumb. His eyes were intense on yours as he softly said, “you’re not alone down here, Y/N,” his hand resting lightly on your cheek, and you were unsure if he knew what he was doing. 

A shock went through you at the tender moment, and before you knew it, you were clearing your throat and leaning away from his touch, uncertain of what it all meant. “Yeah, well, as much as I appreciate the sentiment, it’s not like we enjoy each other’s company all that much.”

That seemingly broke the mood.

“Why do you insist on hating me?” he bit out, his earlier soft stare turning hard and bitter. You scoffed out loud, standing up instinctively to tower over him. “Why do I hate you?” you questioned disbelieving, “why do you hate me?” Stan soon stood up after you, using his own taller stature to one-up you as he loomed over you instead. “God, it’s like you think I’m stupid or something! You’re such a control freak, you know that?” you yelled.

“I’m the control freak?” he reiterated, in a tone much more dubious than yours. There he goes! Trying to one-up you again! “Take a look in the mirror! You fight me on everything, and what does it get us? Useless arguments? You’re the one who always wants to be in control, you’re the one who always tests my patience!” he gritted out, poking you in the chest. Oh, hell no. Taking another step forward so you were as close as you could get to his face, you ground out, “if you touch me one more time Stanley Uris, I swear I will—“

“You’ll do what?” he shot back before you finished, his eyes becoming slightly hooded, your chests nearly meeting as your irritated, heady breaths became almost synchronized.

And then he kissed you.

Actually, he more or less crashed into you, his hands roughly gripping each side of your face as you met him with just as much exhilaration and passion. At first, your hands rested on his chest, but one soon slinked up to his neck, as the other roughly gripped his hair. A small moan escaped him as you did, and you returned it with your own.

Moving his hands slowly, and painfully exhilarating down your body, he gripped your sides before you hopped up and easily wrapped your legs around his waist, unable to get enough. The kiss was a little messy, but the need was too great. It was like it had been built up over the years, and maybe it had. Now that you had gotten a taste of just how sweet he could be, you couldn’t get enough. You weren’t sure he could get enough either.

Soon enough you were pressed rather urgently against a wall, as Stan finally moved his kiss from your lips, down to your jaw, and to your neck where he hit a particularly sensitive spot. Breathing his name rather heavily in return, you unravelled your hand from his hair to bring his lips back up to your again, but a new voice in the enclosed space had you both stopping like two kids caught with their hands in the cookie jar.

“I guess you’re n-not so scared of the b-basement anymore,” Bill called with a small snicker in his tone from the top of the steps.

Bending your head down to rest on Stan’s shoulder, your cheeks flared a rather familiar heat that also passed through your whole body. The boy just simply chuckled into your hair and called back, “we’re all made up.”

Now, you weren’t positively sure about that, but what you were sure of? This wasn’t going to be the last sleepover you had with Stanley Uris if you had anything to do with it.


	2. Ailing Confessions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dating in secret sometimes had its perks, but when Stan got sick and all he wanted was you, it got a little hard to come up with a convincing lie to tell the rest of the losers. Hopefully, it didn’t blow up in your face.

“What’s going on, what’s wrong? Is Stan okay?” you shouted out near-breathless, pushing open the slightly ajar door to his bedroom, frantic eyes scanning for any sense of disaster.

When Richie called you, all you heard on the other end of the line was his stifled voice and arguing in the background. You couldn’t exactly make out what Richie was saying, but you heard enough to piece together between his swearing trash mouth that you needed to come to Stan’s place. You also caught the very alarm-ringing word of “dying.” Putting those two things together within the same breath was enough to kick your ass into gear and bail out on work. You didn’t even give a passing “bye” to your manager. He owed you one anyway. Last time he went out of town, you babysat his cat and the… the thing threw up on everything. Your shoes, your clothes, in your bag, and even once on your hair as you slept. But that’s beside the point. Stan was allegedly dying, and you needed to get to him.

Or that’s what you thought.

Taking in the full scene in front of you, your eyes first drifted towards Ben in the corner, pleading for the angry shouting to stop at a safe distance while wearing his puppy-dog eyed disappointed look that worked on you every single time, but barely on the others. Then you saw Bev sitting on the window sill, hand resting on her cheek as she watched the whole thing with a bored but partially affectionate look—like she’d given up on stopping it long ago, though probably hadn’t tried very hard to do so in the first place. Eddie was trying to manhandle Stan’s to open his jaw, juggling medicine in one hand as he shouted in his particular high-octave, “take the fucking pills, damn it!” Stan, who you might add was also bare-chested, was slapping his hands away like an indignant child, turning his face every which way to avoid Eddie’s hands, letting a trail of “no, no, no, no, no,” leave his mouth. Eddie managed to actually get the pills in there at one point, but in the end, Stan just spat them back into Eddie’s unwitting hand. Eddie shrieked.

Richie, however, had no such panicked fear in his gaze or tone as he had portrayed in his earlier phone call. Instead, he was stood at the base of Stan’s bed, cheering the whole thing on like it was some match to the death. And it was about to be. Just not one between Stan and Eddie.

You silently promised to at least give Richie a beautiful funeral– a dick drawn on his casket and all.

“Hey, trashbitch!” You hollered, stomping up to him and wrapping an arm around his neck, locking him in an unrelenting hold while jerking the tall, gangly boy down to your height. He let out an exclamation of pain followed by a whiny, “what the fuck?”

“Is this the reason you brought me here? To watch Stan not take his medicine? He does this every fucking time! I thought you said he was dying!” Tightening your hold until you brought him to the ground, you both began to pseudo-wrestle. He managed to block any of your pathetic attempts to hit his body. Though, you did manage to smoosh his face against the floor with your hand. Your laugh was victorious, albeit a little maniacal as well.

It was true. This scenario has happened before. While Stan barely ever did get sick, when he did, he made every step on his recovery as tricky as humanly possible. Demonically impossible, even. He was responsible. Probably the most responsible out of all of you, but the moment sickness overtook his body it was like he shifted into this evil brat from hell who only got his kicks on making everyone around him just as miserable as he was. However, you all cared about him too much to just let him get sicker and sicker and sicker by just not doing anything about it. And he knew this.

In short, Stan was a sadistic son of a bitch.

Grabbing your wrist, Richie pulled it off and away from his face, forcing you from your balancing act above him and onto your side. A small gust of air left you at the painful contact of your body hitting the carpet, but your eyes only narrowed in amplified determination. Though his glasses always magnified his eyes anyway, he widened them in a fear that made him look just like a bug so easy to squish.

“Wait, shit, stop,” he started, scrambling back as he outstretched his hands towards you, “I meant I was dying because he wouldn’t stop fighting us and kept saying all he wanted was you here. Care to explain why that is?”

That stopped you.

Freezing all your limbs like if you didn’t move everyone in the room would suddenly forget you were there, you racked your brain for something to say. Another lie, another excuse.

So, maybe you hadn’t been exactly honest with them. For a while.

Like… four months.

You and Stan hadn’t always gotten along. It was no secret. It had been that way ever since you were at kids. If you were in the same room together, an argument would inevitably follow, and while that still happened, it had changed into something a little different a few months back. During a game of truth or dare, your friends had both dared you and Stan into Bill’s basement where you were promptly locked in. You had a substantial freakout. That place gave you the creeps ever since you were a kid—a long story for another day that ended with you having a broken arm—but Stan had calmed you down. And then he kissed you. And you kissed him. And then you made out. And uh, it hadn’t exactly stopped since then.

What can you say? You were weak.

The only one of your friends who knew was Bill, and that was because he had caught you two in his basement and promised to hide it from the rest. He’d been pretty good with it so far, apart from the knowing looks and laughs he gave you two whenever you so much as even looked at each other too long. You’d kept up the façade of the still ‘friendly’ rivalry so far, but it was extremely out of place for Stan to ask for you specifically if he was sick, considering he didn’t want anyone around him at all when he was.

You also realized you probably looked a little too panicked running in here and literally attacking Richie because of how freaked you were about Stan.

Couldn’t blame yourself for dating a dumbass when it seemed you were one too.

Opening your mouth to finally retort back something along the lines of 'well he probably wanted to torture me by being around him,’ instead, you were cut off pretty quick by Stan’s voice timidly saying your name, almost like a question. No—hopefully imploring. Blinking once at Richie, you let his question hang in the air as you popped your head back up. Looking over the edge of the bed, Stan repositioned himself to sit up properly, his head slightly tilted to the side, his sleepy eyes surveying you behind his messy golden curls that surrounded his flushed face. Eddie looked like he’d just run a mile, absolutely wrecked as he stepped back with a huff. Stan just looked…adorable. Too adorable. Oh, God.

“You came?”

Stan didn’t exactly smile, but his voice took on a sort of up-turned infliction of rosiness that pulled at your heart. He was something akin to sunshine; just his warm look thawed out any of the dread and frustration that had encapsulated you upon arrival. There weren’t many moments you two have been able to steal alone as of late. Dating in secret had its own perk of making it more personal, something so securely special between you two and utterly consuming. Unfortunately, when you had a group of friends who barely ever hung out without each other, it left little time to be able to sneak away and successfully have a moment alone. You’d managed okay so far, but in the past month, it’d been hard to pull away from the others. You only got brief little moments of these teasing sunlight streams.

You’d missed him. Yes, you still saw him quite often, but you missed him. Pretending to continually get on each other’s nerves is fun sometimes until it gets devastatingly hard and lonely as well. You didn’t want to go back to how it was before.

“Of course I did,” you spoke softly, your lips twitching up into a small smile that matched the sudden gentleness of your tone.

Then a bottle of Tylenol smacked into your chest in a broken moment, followed by Eddie’s exaggerated huff of, “great, it’s your turn to babysit now!” He very quickly stormed out of the room, muttering as he did.

Picking up the bottle of pills, you stood up and tried to look anywhere but at your friends. Okay. Maybe no one thought this was weird. This is fine. Normal.

“Of course I did,” Richie mocking voice grated your ears, his tone carrying a lilt of impish laughter as he repeated your words back.

Turning your head towards him, you let your smile curve into something more sinister. It was the only warning he had before you launched yourself at him again.

Ben’s arms circled around your waist, pulling you away before you got your hands around Richie’s neck. Bev placed her small hand on Richie’s shoulder as she moved up from her spot to stand behind him. The asshole was startled enough that he actually jumped. I mean, you were talented, but it’s not like you could fucking teleport.

“Mike and Bill are going to the pharmacy to get some more medicine, so while we wait, how about we go make Stan some soup?” Bev offered, flashing a look towards Ben who dropped his hold on you as soon as you stopped struggling.

Ben smiled. “That sounds like a good plan.” As both moved towards the door, you turned to watch, thankful that they were giving you the chance to be alone with Stan but wary of the knowing looks they were casting to each other as they went. Richie, however, stayed right where he was. Bev stalled at the doorframe, raising a red brow and offering a short, “Rich, you coming?” It seemed to snap Richie into place immediately, as he grumbled something about unfairness and how they never made soup while he was sick, before exiting the room and shutting the door behind him with an almost resounding click.

Finally alone.

“Hi.”

Turning back around, you watched as Stan’s face broke in a feverish looking smile, happiness seeping out of him, unrestricted. You’d never quite seen him that way before. Giving an amused shake of your head, you motioned for him to scoot over a bit before sitting on the edge of his bed, setting the medication on his side table. “Hi,” you repeated back with your own little smile, reaching over to press your hand to his forehead.

He closed his eyes at your touch, practically melting as he reached up to clasp your hand, though still keeping it against him. “You’re cold,” he murmured, his voice taking on a sleepy tone.

“I’m not cold, you’re just hot,” you pointed out with a short chuckle, removing your hand to drop it back on your lap, though he still clasped onto it.

“And you’re beautiful.” His smile was languid as he obviously either ignoring your hot comment was because he had a fever or because he was utterly ignorant to your actual meaning due to his muddled mind. Either way, it was all the same. Your cheeks still got warm at his comment, still unused to such compliments coming from him.

“Wow, sick Stan really lays it on thick, doesn’t he?” You joked, standing up from your position. Stan reached out to grab your hand again, an almost panicked expression crossing his face. You let out an amused laugh. “I’m just taking off my jacket, you baby.” Slipping off the restrictive article of clothing, you tossed it onto the corner chair before moving back to his side. “Wanna tell me why you asked specifically for me? It wasn’t enough to stress Eddie out of ten years of his life?”

Stan slipped back to lie down, bringing his comforter up close to his face as he clutched it, glowering at you like you’d said the most offensive thing in the world. “No,” he murmured, “I just wanted to see you. I miss you.”

You sat back down on the bed and slightly brushed his curls off his forehead, letting your fingers linger slightly as you stroked his hair a few times. It seemed he felt the distance between you two just as jarringly. Continually holding back in front of the others, unable to touch his hand, or let your gaze linger too long without being watchful. It was exhausting. “I miss you too,” you spoke in almost a whisper. Stan leaned into your touch.

You both sat like that for a bit in companionable silence, merely taking each other’s features in, a scene of subtly intimacy and comfort. It only broke when Stan scooted over more, lifting the blanket up and stating a simple, “come here.”

And then you realized what that little shit was actually doing.

He was trying to distract you. And he almost succeeded.

Straightening your back a bit, you gave him a coy look as you grabbed the medication bottle from the table and the glass of water sitting next to it. Holding it out to him, almost like a trade, you asked, “will you take your medicine?”

Stan’s face scrunched together, showcasing his deep consideration at the challenge presented to him. Such a thoughtful look would rival those of the best Philosophers. Fuck you, Aristotle.

“No.”

Well then. Fuck you, Aristotle and Stan.

“W-what?”

Shit. You said that out loud.

Ignoring that, you set the medicine and water back down again, standing up and moving towards your coat. Without a word, you began to shrug it back on. Stan’s scrambled at that, clawing out of his covers and sitting up straight, a panicked question of “where are you going?” escaping him.

“Clearly you don’t need my help,” you shrugged, turning back to face him with a knowing look. “You have it all under control. I don’t need to comfort someone who’s not sick enough to take their medicine.”

Stan narrowed his eyes. Like actually, physically narrowed his eyes at you like you were the one being the brat in this situation. You just glared back at him. The tension between you two may have started this impromptu staring contest, but there was no way you were losing it.

And then it began to reach over the two-minute mark, and your eyes started to water. Fuck.

Blinking your eyes with a groan, you cut Stan off before he could rub the win in your face. He always did that. “Let’s make a deal!” you nearly shouted, walking back up to his bedside. “You take your medicine, and I’ll lay down with you for just a little while. We don’t want your body temperature going up any more than it is.”

Stan crossed his arms over his chest. He was silent for a moment, taking on that contemplative look once again. “Deal. But you also have to kiss me.”

Wow. Such a romantic proposition.

Your hesitation in accepting wasn’t so much the fact that he was sick– though, it really should have been– or the fact that you didn’t want to. You did. You really, really, did. It was just the fact that all your friends were outside that door, and knowing them, they would burst in here at any moment.

Stan seemed to read your hesitation for what it was. He always seemed to know what you were thinking. You thought he was going to argue, or simply retract his statement, but Stan surprised you. “I don’t care.” Your face must have turned perplexed, because immediately he began to clarify, “I don’t care if they know. I’m tired. I’m tired of missing you, I’m tired of holding back and pretending like all we want to do is rip each other apart, when quite frankly there’s only one thing I want to rip off of you.” Okay, either you were getting his fever, or your whole body flushed at that single comment. With a hard look, he leaned over and grabbed the pill bottle, shaking two out and swallowing them back without even any water.

“So what’s it going to be?”

Sick Stan was slowly turning into your favourite Stan. Guess he wasn’t taking no as an answer. And who were you to not reward him?

Letting out a light laugh, you took your jacket back off and sat beside him. “It’s a deal,” you smiled, setting a gentle hand on his warm cheek. “But you’re the one who’s going to have to tell them. It’s only fair since you’re obviously getting the better end of the deal.” Leaning down, you shut your eyes as you placed a soft kiss on his lips. Stan put a gentle hand on your arm, almost sighing contently at the contact. Affection rolled off you two in waves, but before you knew it, you’d both parted with tender smiles, foreheads touching.

“That’s not a real kiss.”

Confusion crossed your features, but it quickly turned into shock when Stan gave your arm a hard tug, bringing you down to the bed on top of his chest. Wrapping his too-hot arms around you, essentially caging you against him, his lips met yours again in greedy haste. Bracing your hands on his chest, you moved them up closer to his neck as every part of you lit up where you touched. His hand snaked under your shirt and up, leaving a trail of fire in its wake as his thumbs brushed your skin so gently. You still shivered despite the heat. The kiss was almost persistent, desperate as he tried to pull you closer, tighter. He didn’t want to let go, and neither did you.

He broke off for a moment, his lips trailing to your jaw to give you both a moment to breath. His kisses turned breathless and gentle once more, and you pushed up from your position to stare at him with an incredulous look. “You sure you’re actually sick?” you chuckled, twisting off to lie down next to him, snuggled into his arm.

“I feel great,” he argued back, just before a small coughing fit racked over his entire body. Liar, liar.

Moving away, you began to sit up, laughing as you said, “okay, okay, I don’t want your germs.” Stan pouted as he rolled on top of you and rested his arms on either side of your head, trapping you once again.

“Don’t leave,” he complained, bending his head down to leave a trail of kisses on your neck, cheek, lips. “You love me and my germs,” his voice murmured against your skin, his lips pulling up into a grin. You playfully began to swat him away, laughter really erupting from his onslaught attack. He captured your lips once more, hands sliding up your sides, devastatingly unrelenting. But there was no struggle from you as you wrapped your arms around his neck, moving your lips against his after he teasingly nipped your bottom lip.

He didn’t even make a motion to pull back after Eddie’s angry voice seemed to bounce off the walls of the room with the jarring statement of, “oh that’s so gross, you’re going to get sick!”

Turning your head as Stan grumbled into your neck, something along the lines of 'they always ruin everything,’ you saw all of your friends at the doorway gaping at you two without a damn word to say about it. The only one who made any motion or reaction was Eddie who literally threw his hands up before storming out again, going on about how “it’s not my job to take care of two idiots. I’m not going to do it, I’m not!”

With a small smirk, Bev pushed past both Richie and Ben and shut the door with them behind it, giving you a little wink.

Looks like the cat was out of the bag.

And oddly enough, as Stan smothered you up, you couldn’t care one little bit.


End file.
